


Of Love And Other Simple Things

by PrettyPurpleInk



Series: You Are Not Broken [5]
Category: Death Note
Genre: AU, AU – modern setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Arguing, Boys In Love, But also... - Freeform, Conflict & Resolution, Cuddles and Naps, Depression, Discussions of Past Alcoholism, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Male Character, Gay Nate, M/M, Minor Symptoms of PTSD (If there is such a thing as "minor symptoms"), Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Romance and Cuteness and Happy Niceness, Self-Harm, Smoking, Straight Matt, background drug use, consumption of alcohol, hangovers, insecurity/reassurance, use of marijuana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-01-28 21:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12616480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPurpleInk/pseuds/PrettyPurpleInk
Summary: Love isn't easy, not for anyone.





	1. Chapter 1

  


_Matt's smiling, beautiful and bright and happy, but it isn't at me. The woman he's with is smiling just as brilliantly. They're leaning into each other, enjoying their happy bubble._

_He's with her in the grocery store. She grimaces, somehow fondly, as she watches him pick off and eat single grapes from the display. He's chuckling at the look on her face and offering her a fruit; she complains about it being unwashed, but lets him put it in her mouth anyway. He grins, popping another fruit into his own mouth._

_She bickers playfully with him from the opposite side of he coffee table in his living room as they try to build ’Dumbledore's Office’ without the instructions._

_She's sitting with him at his parents' dining table, effortlessly chatting and laughing and eating with them._

_When he's too numb to do anything but lay in bed, she lays with him, running her fingers through his hair._

_He's falling into bed with her; there's nervous excitement between them and they're giggling as they're kissing. He sits up to pull his shirt off, but he's forgotten to undo the buttons below the collar. It gets stuck halfway over his head and he's cursing, growling and tugging at it while she laughs, urging him to pull it back down so she can undo the buttons for him. There's a dark red line over his lips when the shirt comes off and she kisses it, gently, weaving a hand into his hair and pulling him back down on top of her…_

  


When I open my eyes, the TV is still on, but the show is different. I sit up too quickly, the room lurching and snapping back into place. Matt's still at the computer desk in the corner, looking at me over his shoulder, now. "Hey. Sleep ahright? You were makin' some noise."

"Bad dream," I tell him, rubbing at my eye. "You were…with a woman."

Matt frowns, swivelling the chair toward me. "Baby…" he sighs, sounding sorry, then falls silent, waiting.

I roll my shoulders, arch my back to ease the stiffness, a half-groaned yawn slipping free as I do. "…It wasn't about you b-being seduced away, leaving," I explain, settling with an arm folded on the back of the couch, and my cheek rested on it. "It- I just…we…never happened. Everywhere that I was, I _wasn't_ — our dates, meeting your parents…in bed with you, comforting you…I wasn't there, it was a woman instead…and you were so happy."

With a soft, "Nate," that makes my heart clench, Matt's out of the desk chair and joining me on the couch, sitting close, but leaving me to close the distance — I reach for him and he takes my hand, fingers curled around my palm, thumb running soft arcs over the back of my hand.

"It doesn't- I know that you- _we_ , that we have pasts — look at you, of course you do." Matt smiles bashfully, huffing a short, soft laugh through his nose. "But it doesn't matter. It's about _us now_ , not anyone before…" He nods but stays quiet, waiting. "…I guess I'm just…worried that there's an _after_ , that I'm going to be in your past, too…I love you and I want you to be happy, e-even if it isn't with me–"

"Hey, no, c'mon," he chides gently. "You know you're stuck with me now." He smiles lopsidedly, and I can't help but smile back.

"Almost a year now," he says, smile shrinking, softening, warming. "Don't know what I woulda done without you."

I glance down at our hands, lace our fingers together properly, and squeeze. "Probably would've played though _The Last of Us_ for the 478th time, continued eating bacon and counting the strawberry filling in Pop Tarts as one of your five-a-day…and you definitely wouldn't have ever made your bed," I tease.

"Asshole," he laughs. "I'd be on _at least 500_ play-throughs." I roll my eyes, leaning in to press a little kiss to his lips.

  


"…What's going on here?" I muse, lightly scratching his jaw to feel the scratchy prickle of lengthy stubble against my fingertip.

"Hmm?"

"Have you just not bothered shaving, or are you actively trying to grow a beard?"

Matt shrugs a shoulder. "Just lettin' it do its thing. Why? Don't like it?"

"No, I do, actually. I think it suits you… And it reminds me of the day I met you; you had some stubble then, too; but I couldn't touch your pretty face then."

"Well, y' can touch all ya want now," he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "That's an invitation, by th' way."

"Mhm." I move my hand back, laying my fingers on his neck and stroking the corner of his jaw with my thumb. "Don't you have work you should be doing?"

"I need a break anyway. I can be quick."

"Aren't you always?"

Matt groans a wounded noise, thunking his head down on my shoulder. "Ouch, Baby! Why dontcha just cut off my balls with a pair 'a safety scissors?!"

"I'm sorry!" I laugh, smoothing a hand over his hair. "I'm sorry, Baby…"

"Yeah, yuck it up, Snowflake, w' see who's laughin' in a minute…" he says darkly, shifting closer and laying a hand on my waist.

Then I feel the friction of his facial hair against the sensitive skin of my neck, the contrast of warm, wet lips and tongue moving soft and slow, and I'm melting…

  


  


"No. Nononono! _Matt_!"

"Sorry, Sugar, got work to do." He's grinning at me, infuriatingly smug, as he gets to his feet.

" _No_. Matt, get back here! I swear, if you leave me like this I _will_ find a pair of safety scissors." Matt's chuckling at me, taking slow steps backward toward the desk. "The dullest, stiffest pair you've ever seen!" He ignores me, sitting himself in the desk chair and turning back to the computer. "You're the worst."

"You love me," he retorts over his shoulder.

"More than anything… Now get back here and finish what you started."

"Cain't, Baby, don't have another break planned for about an hour." I flop back onto the couch and try to ignore the quiet laughter I hear from across the room.

  


  



	2. Chapter 2

  


  


" _Sssoooo_ , big day comin' up, you guys have plans?" Millie asks, trailing her fingertips along a rail of shirts as we pass them.

"Not yet," I admit. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

Millie looks horrified. " _Not yet?!_ You don't even have any ideas? It's _tomorrow_ , Nate!" Worry twists up in my gut. "It's your first anniversary! You have to do _something_!"

"We will. We just haven't decided what yet."

"You could just have sex all day," comes a voice from in front of us. Imogen, Millie's little sister, and the reason we're at the mall, is walking backwards now, taking slow, careful steps as she leads us through a store.

I can't help it, I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. " _Imogen!_ " Millie laughs.

"What? I'm 15, I know about sex. _In theory_ , don't freak out," she adds quickly. Then she's looking back at me. "Rose petals on the bed, candles and stuff, make it fancy."

"Th-thank you, I'll, um, I'll keep that in mind." She gives me an anime-esque exaggerated wink and a thumbs up, and turns back around.

  


  


"They're the same color, Gem," Millie insists, exasperated but amused.

"Ugh! Useless!" Imogen grumbles, turning to me and holding the shirts a little higher. "Nate, you're good with this stuff, help me out."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean…" Or rather, I hope I don't.

Unfortunately, I do — "You're gay, right? I mean, why else are you holding my sister's hand and spending the afternoon shopping with girls?"

Millie's glaring at her, outraged, looking like she's squaring up for a fight, but I speak up before she can do or say anything. "As a matter of fact, I _hate_ shopping: the crowds, the way everyone seems to forget what personal space is, I can't stand it. I'm only here because Millie told me, and I quote, _”My sister drives me insane, I need you as a buffer”_ ; and I just happen to like holding hands… Anything else?"

"You're awfully eloquent," she says, almost accusatory.

"I don't like sounding like a dumbass. I didn't realise intelligence was an exclusively homosexual attribute."

She frowns a little. "Your skin is amazing and it looks like you look after your hands."

"Thank you."

"You drink soy lattes."

I can't help but laugh, I don't think I've heard that one before. "I drink non-dairy milk because I'm _allergic_ to dairy. Where are you getting all of this from?"

"Just stuff y' hear, y'know?" She shrugs, toying with the pendant on her necklace. "So…you're _not_ gay?"

"No, I'm gay. But you shouldn't make assumptions, and you really shouldn't believe all those ridiculous stereotypes."

"Came out to buy some shirts, going home with life lessons," she deadpans, but the little smile on her face is apologetic.

  


"…The one in your right hand _is_ a little more blue."

  


  


“*”

  


It's been quiet for a few minutes when she comes bounding in, the dyed-green ends of her hair flying around her face as he _hops_ to a stop in front of the counter. "Hi!"

"Hi. Can I help you w' somethin'?"

She's beaming, staring at me, and it's a little unnerving. "No. Y'know, you're cuter than in the pictures."

The polite smile falls from my face and I'm outright frowning at her instead. "’Scuse me?"

"The pictures I saw this afternoon. Very cute. But the real thing? _Niiice_. You could probably model or something."

"I- wha- s-sorry, do I know you?"

She opens her mouth to say something, but when Jared calls out, "Gem?" from a few feet away, she turns and rushes to him instead, throwing her arms around him. "Where's your sister?"

"Oh, great to see you, too, Jay!"

"Yeah yeah, the world was gray 'til you showed up," he says dully; she grins at him anyway.

"She's parking. I didn't wanna wait…"

They're still talking as a customer comes up to the counter. "Looks like you have a fan," he jokes. I agree with a polite smile and a _Yeah, looks like it_ , and the rest of the transaction passes in silence. As he leaves, Millie walks in, holding Nate's hand, and everything makes sense — Gem, Imogen; Millie's little sister; Nate must've shown her pictures.

The look of relief on Nate's face when he sees me makes my heart stumble in my chest. With barely a glance at her, or even really listening for her reply, I call out to the other brunette, "Hey, Cora? Watch the register?" and join Nate on the couch in the corner.

He looks almost tired as he smiles at me, and doesn't tense up for even a second as I curl a finger under his chin, my thumb running a slow back and forth over it. "You okay?" He nods slowly, bracing a hand on my knee, and shuts his eyes. "You sure…?"

"Just…crowds. People everywhere…feel…too much." He says lowly, like his own voice is too much for him.

"Want my keys? Come back for me later?" Nate shakes his head, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. "Headphones?" He nods at that, sinking back into the couch as I stand.

It takes me a couple minutes to find them. When I get back to him, Nate _looks_ a little more relaxed, but his hands balled into fists at his sides give him away. "Baby." He tips his chin up, looking at me over the back of the couch and smiles when I offer him the headphones. He mouths a thank you, smiling wider as I duck my head to kiss his chin, and takes the headphones, promptly digging his phone out of his pocket.

After a few minutes, Millie and Imogen join him — when I look over, Nate's laying on his back, messing with his phone with his feet in Millie's lap; she has an idle hand on his shin, chatting to her sister, who sits on the other couch.

  


The next couple hours pass quickly. I can feel my own anxious irritation prickling under my skin as people buzz around the store, but it never takes hold and I'm thankful for it. Troy's finished in the office by the time my and Jared's shifts are over, so we don't have to wait around for him before we leave. When we're back out on the shop floor, Nate comes over, headphones around his neck, smiling at me, Imogen and Millie trailing behind him. "Hey. Feelin' better?"

"Much better." He braces himself with a hand on my waist, stretching up on his toes to steal a kiss. I duck my head before he gets too far and he presses his lips to mine again, just as soft, for a moment longer.

"Good." My fingers trail down the length of his arm, to his hand, weaving easily between his fingers.

"Hey, we're goin' to _John's_ , you guys wanna come?"

I shrug a shoulder at him and Nate smiles, turning his head to nod at Jared. "Sure."

  


  


"…Timmy's scaling the wall, so I'm like, ’Sir, please don't let your son climb the shelves’; dude mumbles at his kid, kid gets down…two minutes later he's fuckin' up there again!" A chorus of laughs rings around the table, Nate lemonade bubbling in his glass as he accidentally giggles through the straw. Somehow he swallows the drink the wrong way, and splutters, red-faced, as he sets the glass back on the table. The laughter gets louder.

I lay a hand between his shoulder blades, slowly rubbing up and down as he coughs. "You okay, Baby?" I don't mean to, but I'm still laughing.

There's a weak smile on his face as he offers a thumbs up. "Lemonade…burns," he rasps, spluttering a little laugh.

Millie's laughter is tapering off as she passes her water glass across the table. "Here." Nate mouths a _Thanks_ at her and takes a careful sip.

  


When everything's calmed down, and I've _just_ taken a bite of my taco, Millie stares right at me, and inclines her head with an intimidatingly business-like "So." The table is eerily quiet as I hasten to chew and swallow. "A little birdy tells me that you boys don't have any plans for tomorrow."

I smile into my napkin as I wipe my mouth. "That he knows of."

Nate looks up from his burrito bowl, eyes wide. "What?"

"Yeah," I shrug, meeting his gaze. "Got a few ideas. Surprise?"

The look on his face is so _soft_ , so full of _adoration_ that I feel myself blushing, my heart tripping into a sprint.

  


  


  


Nate rolls over _again_ , onto his back this time. He lays with his arms at his sides. Then tucks one under his head. Then folds his hands over his belly. He sighs, tucks his legs up so his knees point at the ceiling. Then stretches them back out. Then bends them again. He fidgets, lightly knocking his knees together, gently swaying his legs side to side, his hands sifting restlessly beneath the blanket.

" _Baby_. Jesus, _try_ ta lay still?"

"I can't!" He hisses, sounding happy about it. "I'm too excited!"

"You're too cute, is whatcha are."

"I am a 24 year old man. I am _not_ cute."

"You are. You're fuckin' adorable. All hyped up 'cause we're hangin' out tomorrow. Cutest shit I've ever seen."

"Shut up," he mumbles, feeling around under the blanket.

Fire shoots up my arm and I realised he's pinched me. _Hard_. "OW! Fuck! What the fuck?"

"Don't call me cute."

"Don't _be_ cute." He pinches again but I manage to snatch my arm away before he can grip too tight. "Ow, little shit! Knock it off." He pinches again, not nearly as hard, but it still stings. I bat at his hand and try to wiggle away. "Quit it!"

He's giggling now, both hands searching out my skin, the brief grips of his fingers like sharp bug bites. "Say I'm not cute, Matthew."

"I can't, you- ow! You are. St- ouch! Stop it!" If I try to wiggle much further away, I'll end up on floor, and he'll probably just follow me down.

Luckily, but much more _un_ luckily, Nate throws the blanket off of us, hurriedly straddling my hips to resume pinching, giggling almost manically while he does. I can't wiggle away and I can't push him off; my arms are too weak from my own laughter.

"Say it, Peaches! Say I'm not cute!"

I shake my head, still laughing, still trying to bat his hands away but he's too quick. "Fuck- _fuck, ouch_ \- fuck off!"

He takes some sort of pity on me and starts poking instead, careful not to jab too hard. " _I must not tell lies_. Say it." Then suddenly he's still. For a moment, I think something might be wrong, but even in the dark I can see the wicked gleam in his eye.

Nate brushes the pad of his finger, featherlight, over the dip of my belly button and my stomach lurches sickeningly.

  


Suddenly sobered up, I grab his hips, shoving him off of me. He squeaks in shock, half giggling as I pin his arms down at his sides. "Not fair," I growl; he just grins up at me. When I lean down to press a kiss to his lips, his arms shift in my grip. "If I letcha up, y' gonna keep pokin' me?"

"I'll jam my finger right into your belly button; might even _wiggle it_ a little," he threatens, and I have to swallow the sickness that rises into my throat.

" _Evil_. Like wunna those horror movie demon kids. Look all sweet and cute, but nah, _pure fuckin' evil_."

He laughs softly, shifting under me. "C'mon, get off, I won't poke you." I narrow my eyes and he rolls his, laughing again. "No poking, pinching or belly button touching, I promise." Slowly, I release his hands — when I move to climb off of him, they come up to gently grip my thighs.

" _Really_ , Sugar? Not gonna let me get _any_ sleep?"

"Of course I will." He inches his hands inward, thumbs brushing the skin of my inner thighs. "…Later."

  


“*”

  


When I wake in the morning, it's to the warm weight of Matt's head on my chest, and the gentle back and forth of his fingertips along my thigh. It's light outside, but the alarm hasn't gone off yet, and I wonder if I could just fall back to sleep, until I feel Matt's lips curling in a smile against my skin. "Mornin'."

"Morning," I murmur, blinking my eyes open. Sunlight sneaks in around the curtains, throwing pale yellow streaks along the walls. Matt's hair is sticking up in disarray where it isn't fanned over my skin, soft and shiny. I reach for him with a clumsy hand, scratching my fingernails over his scalp. "How did you know?"

"You sigh."

"Do I?"

"Every time. 'S cute."

"Nngh. Don't start that again." Matt laughs breathily, the happy sound hot against my skin. He rolls into his stomach, then, propping his chin on his hand to smile down at me. My hand's fallen from his hair to somewhere near his bicep, so I lazily trace the tattoo there instead. "You're…awake early," I comment around a yawn.

"Guess I was kinda hyped up, too," he admits with a sheepish curve of lips.

I glance at the alarm clock; it's barely after seven. "Lay back down. Try to get some more sleep, there's still time."

"Nah, 'm already up. Lemme make breakfast?"

"Cuddle some more first." Matt agrees with a smile, curling up on his side and tangling his legs with mine. My thumb traces the curve of his shoulder as he settles his head back on my chest.

After a few long minutes, I hear soft snoring and let my eyes fall shut, too.

  


  



	3. Chapter 3

  


  


"…You were stood…right about…here." Matt says, smiling as he gently guides me into place. "And I was…" he moves into his own spot, "…here. And I turn around—" he does "—and I see you, starin' at me."

"I was awed by you," I confess, feeling heat in my face, "I couldn't help but stare. And then you smiled at me — just like that — and you were stuck in my head from then on."

"That quick?"

I nod at him, crossing the space and take hold of his hand again. "I asked you out so soon because I was afraid that it would be the last time I saw you, and I had to at least try."

"Wish I'd been more open minded, said yes to a date. Coulda had a whole 'nother year with you."

"I'd say you were open minded; I don't know many people that would so easily initiate a friendship with someone who clearly has a crush on them."

"I meant what I said, you seemed like a nice guy — turns out you're some sort 'a saint-in-trainin'." I laugh a dismissive little sound, and Matt's smile grows. He's looking at me like he wants to kiss me, but decides against it when a couple little girls come barrelling down the aisle — neither of us want to deal with disapproving looks from parents today. "Wanna get outta here?"

"I just want to get one thing before we go." He gestures in a 'lead the way' motion, and lets me pull him toward the dollar toys.

  


"Really, Baby?" He chuckles as we're standing in line.

"Really."

At the counter, I hand over a dollar and borrow a pen to scribble on the receipt, shielding the note from Matt's gaze. He smiles indulgently as I hide the receipt and the toy (even though he's already seen it) behind my back, guiding me with a gentle hand on my waist as I walk backwards toward the door.

When we're outside, bright sunlight glinting off the frame of his glasses, I present the items to him. He takes the wind-up penguin in one hand, and the receipt in the other, eyes falling the the bottom of the paper where I've scribbled my name and number. He's grinning when he looks up, chuckling when I wink at him.

"I'm keeping this," he tells me, taking out his wallet to tuck the slip of paper inside.

"Well, I'd hope so."

  


  


Our next stop is the post office, to check Matt's PO box. "Mom sent me a text while you were in the shower; said she an' Dad sent us somethin'," he explains.

Inside the locker is a slip of paper with instructions to hand it in to the desk clerk.

A few minutes later, we sit in the car with a large padded envelope in my lap, and the sound of a dial tone coming from Matt's phone. After a few moments a bright, "Hi, Baby!" fills the space. "Did you get your present yet?"

"Actually that's why we're callin'."

"Is Nate there with you? Can I say hi real quick?"

Matt smiles at me. "Yeah, he's here; you're on speaker phone, Mom, he can hear you."

"Oh! Hi, Honey!"

I'm not sure what's so funny, but I can barely keep from laughing. Maybe it's the day that's making me giddy. "Hi, Charlotte."

"Oh, it's good to hear your voice, Sweetheart," she coos, making my chest feeling fluffy and warm. "How are you, boys? Did you like your present?"

"Well, that's why we're calling. Um, we noticed it was rattling a little. We wondered if something might be broken?"

"Oh, no, Honey, 'm sure everythin's fine; you'll see when y' open it. Now, I better get back to work, you boys enjoy the rest of your day."

"We will, thank you."

"Thanks, Mom. Love you."

"Love you, too, Hon. Alright, imma let you boys go. Bye bye."

With a little chorus of _Bye_ s the call disconnects, and Matt drops the phone into his lap. "So it's s'pposed ta rattle," he says, "Weird. Wanna go home 'n' open it?"

I look down at the package in my lap, considering it for a moment. "Not yet," I decide, "unless you want to?"

When I look up at him, Matt offers a lazy shrug. "Don't bother me one way 'r the other… Wanna take a walk?" A smile curves my lips, and I nod at him.

  


  


"When I said I had plans," Matt says as we amble over bright green grass, "I think I might've oversold it. This is, uh, this is pretty much it. Well there's- I booked us a table for dinner, if you're up for it, but…"

"Matty. I wasn't expecting something extravagant; neither of us have _Big, Fancy Date_ money laying around. I don't care what we do — we could've laid in bed and stared at the ceiling in silence — I'm just happy to be spending time with you."

"I just keep thinkin' that you deserve a _Big, Fancy Date_."

"So do you, and when we have the money for it, we'll do it, but I don't need it." I pull us to a stop, and Matt turns to face me, laying gentle hands on my hips; my own hands come to rest on his waist. "All I need is you. As long as I've got you, I'm happy."

Matt smiles at me, exactly the same as the first smile he ever gave me, small and shy and sweet, like a sigh of relief. "I've never been as happy as I am with you… I love you, Nate."

"I love you."

He's smiling as he kisses me, slow and sweet and warm, and it feels like melting — melting under him, into him, and it's perfect.

  


  


Partway around the park, Matt leads me just off the path, stopping in front of a skinny, silver-grey barked tree, it's branches laden with clusters of bright red berries. "Know what this is?"

I shake my head. "No."

"’S a rowan tree."

"How do you know that?"

"Googled 'em," he grins. "Close y'r eyes." I frown at him for a moment but when he insists, "go on, close 'em," I do. "Now, no matter whatcha hear, no peekin'."

"What? O-okay," I agree, with a shake of my head.

"Hand, please. Need ya t' hold m' phone…thanks."

I take his phone, carefully slipping it into the pocket of my jeans. "Mhm."

I stand there, eyes shut, waiting, listening. I hear the agitated rustling of disturbed leaves, a few, short, soft grunts and more rustling; then a pause…there's the sound of snapping…then a thud and a pained, breathy grunt, "Ngh. Shit."

"Matt? Are you okay?"

"’M fine. Don't look." He says quickly.

"I'm not _looking_ ," I laugh, "I'm just asking if you're okay."

He presses a quick, hard kiss to my temple. "I'm good." I can't really hear much anymore, but I think I feel something…

"Are you putting leaves in my hair?"

"Nooo…"

"You are! You ass! You are such a child! I'm opening my eyes."

"Nah, hang on! 30 more seconds…" I start a slow countdown, and as I'm reaching seven, Matt interrupts. "Okay, open."

When my eyes have readjusted to the sunlight, I see Matt, looking hopeful, with a thick, silver-gray stick between his fingers. "Rowan, right, nine and a half inches?" I nod, taking the stick from him. "I don't have any unicorn hair," he says, picking the leaves out of my hair, "but I think I have an alternative." I follow him the short distance to the flower garden, fingers tight around the stick.

I shake my head, rolling my eyes and sighing as he presents his alternative — _a sprig of lavender_.

  


  


An hour or so later, we're back at my apartment. I sit on the sofa with the package in my lap while Matt rifles through a drawer in my kitchen. "Boring!" He calls, shortly followed by the sound of the drawer closing.

"What is?"

"Your letter opener," he says, eyeing it disdainfully as he strides into the room. "It's just a letter opener."

"What did you expect it to be?"

"Well mine looks like _The Hero's Sword_."

"Of course it does, you dork. You don't even have normal fridge magnets."

"Yours are 80% vegetable-shaped pens." He argues, throwing himself down beside me.

"They're handy." He scoffs at me, handing over my _boring_ letter opener. "Are you sure you want me to open it? It has your name on it, it was sent to you."

"Mom doesn't have your address. Go on 'n' open it." I slip the metal under the flap of the envelope, glancing at Matt just to be sure; he nods pointedly at my hands, and I tear it open, tipping the contents out onto my lap.

Inside is a plain cardboard box, and an ergonomic mousepad and two keychains with the same image printed on them: the first picture of us that Matt sent to his parents.

"Sentimental's her middle name, I swear," Matt mumbles; it sounds like he's trying to complain, but he has this happy little smile on his face. "What's in the box?"

I have to use the letter opener again, to cut the pieces of tape at the edges, I'm careful while shimmying off the lid. "It's a puzzle…I think I love your mom."

"Don't tell _her_ that, she'd try ta steal y' from me. I'd prob'ly lose if I had ta fight her for you."

  


While Matt sends a thank you text to Charlotte — because she's likely still working — I make myself comfortable on the floor in front of the coffee table: one leg folded under me, the other tucked up to my chest so that I can rest my chin on my knee. "You alright down there?" Matt asks. I can hear his smile. I nod, reaching into the box to begin fishing out the edge pieces. He reaches out, lightly combing his fingers through the back of my hair, and settles back on the couch, turning the TV on.

I'm not sure how long we stay in our bubble, puzzle pieces softly clicking into place, the sounds of the Discovery Channel drifting from the TV, Matt occasionally reaching over to run the backs of his fingers over my shoulder blade, but I doesn't feel like long enough. All too soon the puzzle is done, the image surprisingly clear for all the tiny pieces that make it.

" _Wow_. Pretty sure that was s'posed t' take longer than it did," Matt says, chin rested in my shoulder. "That's a thousand pieces, y'know that? Took ya little under four hours."

"Oh…"

"Oh," he echoes, touching a kiss to my neck. "Takes people _days_ to do puzzles that big, only took _you_ a few _hours_."

"I like puzzles… I was excited to see this one finished," I explain shyly. "…I wonder if it'd be possible to get it framed…"

"Prob'ly. We can look into it tomorrow if y' want…but, I gotta go now."

I lean away from him, twisting so I can see his face. "What? Go where?"

"Back t' my place, I gotta get ready. I'll be back t' pick you up at seven."

I glance at the clock, visible through the doorway to the kitchen — it's just after 5. "Gonna get all gussied up for me," I tease, trying to mimic his accent.

"Not bad," he comments. "And, yes, I am. Ain't black tie, so don't get y'r hopes up, but imma put a li'l effort into it, just this once."

"Well don't make too much of an effort, I'm already dumbstruck by your idea of effort _less_."

" _Smooooth_."

  


  


  


When I open the door at exactly seven, Matt stands there, clean shaven, in a fitted button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the bottom hem tucked into a pair of dark jeans; his usual combat-style boots have been replaced with a pair of shiny black shoes — suddenly the nerves that had been fluttering in my stomach for the past 40 minutes are something else.

"I'm guessin' I look okay?" He teases, a smirk on his face.

"You look great. But I think you know that."

"Well, mirror didn't shatter or nothin', so… I'd tell y' you look good, but it's kinda redundant, y' always look good."

Immediately I feel heat creeping up my neck. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. 'Bout ready t' go?"

"Yeah." I grab my keys and wallet off the side table, lock the door behind me, and follow him to his car.

  


  


The restaurant is a small but comfortable place, affordable, but it feels expensive. I'm surprised Matt and I manage to eat at all, with all the time we spend laughing or staring at each other like idiots, but we do, and the food is fantastic. Neither of us are ready to leave when our entrées are finished, so, to the amusement of our waiter, we order some more tabouli and a couple more drinks.

"I gotta ask," Matt starts after a sip of his iced tea, "why do you call me peaches?"

"Uh, a few reasons," I chuckle, feeling a little nervous and maybe a bit embarrassed. "One, your mom calls you Plum, and that's adorable, and Peaches just seems to fit. Two, um, it apparently mildly annoys you, and that's adorable–"

"Y're throwin' out a lotta “adorable”s for someone that don't like bein' called cute."

"Three," I continue, pointedly ignoring his comment and earning a chuckle. "You're from The Peach State. Aaannd lastly…youuu…have a _perfect_ peachy butt." Matt laughs so loudly that he gets a curious glance from diners at a nearby table. He offers them an apology, but they smile and shake their heads, kindly dismissing it. "Since we're playing this game, why do you call me Sugar?"

"’Cause you like it." I hum a sound of agreement, reaching for the plate of tabouli. "’Cause y're sweet," he drawls softly, "an' life's better with even just a li'l of ya in it."

I feel like I'm floating in my seat; like when you've spent so long swimming, that even when you've left the water, you can feel it against your skin. " _Matt_ …"

"You're blushin'."

"I, I-I don't doubt it. That was…beautiful, Matt, thank you." He shrugs a shoulder bashfully. "I really want to kiss you but this _stupid_ table's in the way…"

Smiling that charming, lopsided smile, Matt reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together on the tabletop. "Wanna make a move?"

"Yeah." I squeeze his fingers, gently, and he squeezes back.

  


We get the rest of the tabouli to-go, split the bill, and kiss against the side of the building like teenagers — bodies pressed close, mouths moving eagerly, hands holding tight.

I feel my lips curving as they part from Matt's; his heavy breaths sound something like giddy laughter and feel warm on my face as he touches his forehead to mine. "Happy anniversary, Matty."

He steals one more gentle brush of lips. "Happy anniversary, Baby."

  


  



	4. Chapter 4

  


  


As I'm inching toward the edge of the bed the next morning, a hand comes to rest on my waist, halting my shuffling, and a slow, sleepy voice inquires, "Where ya goin'?"

I lay still, only turning my head to look at Matt — his eyes are shut, lips parted from his question, and his hair a tangled mess — he's as incomprehensibly handsome as always. "Well, first, I'm going to adopt a toy poodle named François, and dress him in a little sweater, and then I'm taking him antiquing."

Matt snorts a laugh and opens his eyes. "Sooo gay," he teases, voice gravelly.

"Sooo not as straight as you thought you were," I grin back, and he huffs a sleepy chuckle.

His hand's still on my waist as he asks, "Cain't stay a li'l longer?"

I shake my head. "Sorry."

"Nah, 's okay. Gonna shower? Gimme a minute, I'll join you."

"You don't have to…"

"No, I know, but you're gonna wanna change these sheets when ya get out."

Guilt bites at my belly; it's not as if we were asleep by 9, and he seems so tired still. "I'm sorry you can't sleep in."

"I'm not. Means I get t' spend more time with you." I lean in, intending to kiss him, but he yawns instead, and I'm hit with the full force of his morning breath. He's laughing as he apologises, trying to pull me back in.

"No! No kisses for you, stink breath!" I manage to free myself from his sleepy hold and roll out of bed unscathed. Matt's staring at me as I stand there, sapphire eyes slowly…moving…down my body…and back…up. He's seen me naked before, obviously, he's _looked_ at me while I've been naked, but I suddenly feel inexplicably shy, and the heat of embarrassment begins leeching into my cheeks and down my neck.

So I divert his attention, grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it off the bed with one swift yank. "Up and at 'em, Tiger, things to do!"

"Prick!" Matt cries, scrambling off the bed as I try to make a hasty exit from the room.

"I'll add it to the– AAH!" I make it into the hallway before his arms are around my waist, fingers tickling my sides. "No! Matt, no! St-stop it! MaaAAATT!"

  


  


It isn't until after we've showered, and I'm admiring Matt as he pulls on a pair of Avengers-themed boxer shorts that I notice. "Oh my God…!"

Instantly alert, he turns his head to look at me over his shoulder. "What?"

"I…your…"

He twists at the waist, craning his neck to follow my gaze. "Oh, yeah," he laughs, like it's _normal_ , like he always wakes up with teeth marks on his butt. "’S helluva bruise; nice work," he says appreciatively, still smiling.

"I don't drink, I couldn't've been drunk. Why did I _do that_? I am _so_ sorry!"

"Baby, 's alright," he says, pulling his underwear the rest of the way up as he turns toward me. "I'm not mad. You seen y'r neck? This is nothin'." I don't realise I've reach up until my fingers brush the tender skin between my neck and shoulder. His fingers, incredibly gentle, brush over the equally (beautifully) blemished skin of my collarbone and I shiver.

"That's…that's different I, I like when you…"

"Maybe I like that when I tell you to kiss my ass, you sink your teeth in instead, 'cause you don't take shit from anybody, not even me."

"Is that what happened?"

He nods, one side of his mouth lifting into a grin. "Yeah. You made a joke, cain't remember what; I toldja t' kiss my ass, an' you bit me…so I kinda deserved it."

"Oh, well in that case…" I grin, and Matt presses his lips to my forehead. Affection blooms warm in my belly.

  


Matt helps me strip the bed, and when that's done, he heads to the kitchen to start the coffee maker. With everything thrown in the machine and the wash cycle started, I join him — he's leaning back against the counter beside the coffee maker, one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded loosely across his bare chest; it's really _very_ frustrating that he's so oblivious to how beautiful he is.

"I assume you wouldn't consider just standing there and letting me admire you while I work?"

"Not a chance. Look all y' want, but lemme help a li'l."

"If you insist." I can tell already that I'll be doing more than he thinks is fair, but he'll let me, so long as I'm not doing it entirely on my own.

  


We stand side by side peeling potatoes — "Why d'you have two peelers?"  
"Because one works better than the other and I can never remember which one's which until I'm using them." — and whenever he catches me looking at him, he'll pause to pose; it's silly and inefficient, and it should be making feel anxious, but I'm laughing every time.

When I take his peeled potatoes away to dice them, he honest to god pouts at me until I point out the apple and sweet potatoes that need peeling, too. I grate one of the sweet potatoes and the apple, and Matt dices the other, pressing soft kisses to the back of my neck and to my shoulder as he pleases. "You're very distracting, do you know that?"

"Cain't help it. I've got notoriously terrible impulse control. _Have to_ kiss you."

"I think _terrible_ is a bit harsh; I'd say…spotty."

"Well, whatever ya call it, I'm gonna keep kissing you. 'Less ya don't want me to."

"No, I do. Kiss me as much as you like; I fully intend to do the same."

"Well then…" Matt leans into my space again, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of my neck, then drags his lips to where there's more muscle and nips it, holding it between his teeth.

I gasp as a shiver trembles down my spine. He lets my skin slip from between his teeth rather than releasing it all at once, and it isn't until he's straightened up that I'm able to find my voice, embarrassingly breathy as it is. " _Very_ distracting."

Matt looks extremely pleased with himself as he goes to throw his peelings in the trash.

  


As I put the diced potato mix in the oven, Matt makes us second cups of coffee, and after I've cut the ends off an onion and cut it in half, we flee to the living room with them to let the onion have its tantrum.

"I was thinkin'," he says as he sits with his legs across my lap, "I should learn how t' make the bed properly, y'know? Like you do. Don't seem right that every time you stay over, you make my bed, and I can't do the same for you." I can't argue with that, so I agree to show him, following him to the kitchen where he rinses our cups and leaves them in the sink.

  


Breakfast takes a little while to finish, with my efforts to try to do it alone and Matt's to prevent it. I do feel a little guilty for attempting to exclude him, but the relief I feel for the effort I've put in nearly evens it out, and though he looks a little miffed, I think he understands.

  


  


When we've eaten and we're medicated, and dishes have been washed, dried and put away, I find myself feeling… _off_ , like I'm forgetting something important. It must show on my face…or maybe it's that I'm standing in the middle of my kitchen, glaring at the floor, that has Matt laying a light hand on my shoulder and asking, "You alright?"

"I feel like I'm forgetting something." I'm frowning at the tile now, I can feel it.

"Hmm…we didn't have any plans today," he offers.

I nod. _No formal plans. I've taken care of my personal hygiene. I've had breakfast and cleaned up. I've taken my medication. The sheets are in the washing machine_ … Then all at once, that nagging little something becomes a list of demands: _the counters need to be disinfected, and the stovetop cleaned…the carpet needs to be vacuumed…the bathroom sink…the sheets… Too little done yesterday. Not good_.

"Nate? Baby, you okay?"

Suddenly my eyes are burning and I realise I'm been staring unblinkingly at the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut and nod; when I open them again, Matt's watching me, clearly concerned. "I'm okay. I just n-need to…to do a few things."

"That's okay. Do what you need to." He says, carding his fingers through my hair. "Take all the time you need, I'll be here when you're done." My stomach twists at the thought of doing it all alone — not doing the work, but being by myself. "…Or d'you want me to stay with you?"

I don't know how he knows, but I'm grateful for it and nod eagerly. "S-stay, please? Talk to me?" My voice is softer, smaller than it has been all morning, and I know Matt's noticed, too.

"’Course I will… But before you start — there's no consequences, no expectations. You do as much or as li'l as you need to; if you wanna stop part-way though, that's fine. However you decide to do this is fine by me, okay?"

I nod and lean into him, hugging him tight. "Thank you."

  


Matt follows me– no, _goes with me_ to each room, staying within my field of vision, sometimes just loitering nearby, sometimes handing me cleaning supplies as he sees me reaching for them. His chatter isn't constant, but even in the lulls his gaze is comfortable — he's watching, not _scrutinising_ , just _observing_.

  


I'm enjoying his company — how it eases the sense of urgency and the feeling loneliness that usually comes with the compulsions — until it comes to making the bed.

He's asked to help, and I can't help feeling that something bad will come from letting him. I imagine my voice sounding like Her's as I have to correct him, and I can see on his face how much I'm upsetting him; or maybe I'll allow him his mistakes and remake the bed when he leaves the room, but he'll see me do it and he'll be angry with me; or I may even do it all alone, and he'll be unhappy that I haven't let him help. All he wants is to help me but I won't let him…

My jaw aches with how tightly it's clenched, and my breaths are coming quicker, and all I want to do is lock myself in the bedroom and hide until the guilt and nausea pass.

But it isn't like it was anymore. It hasn't been that way for almost 13 years, and I _know_ that. _This is okay. I'm okay. There are no consequences_. I turn to meet the gaze I feel on my back; the eyes are blue, beautiful dark blue, Matt's eyes. _No consequences_. He offers a careful, warm smile, and immediately I feel a little better; it doesn't fix everything, I'm still feeling anxious, but the fear that had been creeping in has dissipated. Matt's smiling and waiting. Patiently. _I have all the time I need. No expectations, no consequences. It won't be like it was then_.

I breathe deep through my nose, relaxing my jaw as I slowly exhale. I breathe again, this time working my jaw in a slow circle; Matt winces sympathetically when it pops.

When I find my voice, the words come quietly, but clearly, and thankfully steady; "First we'll need to…"

  


Matt follows my instructions with more care and caution than he's done almost anything with before.

As I watch him smoothing out the fitted sheet, and making sure the pillows are filling the corners or their cases, and shaking out the comforter to ensure that the edges aren't rolled up inside the cover, every motion so tensely precise and timid, my heart aches — this isn't how he should be. I wonder if he thinks the same when he sees me doing this…

Throughout the process I have to keep reminding myself that _This is okay. Matt wants to do this. There are no consequences for his mistakes or mine. Guidance and correction are very different from demands and reprimands. There is no one judging or formulating punishments. This is all okay_. But even so, I feel tired when the task is done.

"You do this every time you change your sheets?" Matt asks from the other side of the bed, sounding something incredulous and sympathetic and disbelievingly amused. I find that I only have the energy to nod at him. "All this really took it outta ya, huh? Would a hug help?" The first question is rhetorical, and the answer to the second is always Yes, but I nod again anyway.

Matt crosses the space and gently pulls me into the circle of his arms, and I almost feel like I could fall asleep exactly as I am, standing with my head against his chest, my ear over his heart, listening to it's strong, steady rhythm.

"How about we lay down and fire up your laptop and chill in here f'r a li'l bit? Sound good?"

"Mmmhm."

  


  


We lay diagonally across the bed, me on my stomach, and Matt's torso half on top of me as his head rests between my shoulder blades. I don't remember what we agreed to watch, but it doesn't matter; I'm dozing so often that I miss most of it anyway.

In one moment of wakefulness, I feel a soft kiss laid on my skin.

In another, I'm opening my eyes as Matt's retuning to the room with a bottle of water in hand; I drink some when he offers it to me, and settle back down — I'm asleep the moment he's cuddling me again, knowing that if he were upset with me for anything earlier, he wouldn't be holding me like this now.

In another, and the last for a while, I feel slow, heavy breaths against my skin, and hear nothing from the laptop, and smile as I sink back into slumber.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My longest gap yet between updates, and I have no good excuse as to why. :$ This is why I never set an update schedule — honestly, don't think I'd be able to keep it up.   
> ANYWAY. Hope it was worth the wait!


	5. Chapter 5

  


  


"’Scuse me. I need t' speak to the manager."

Nate turns around so quickly that it makes _me_ dizzy. He sighs as soon as he sees me, looking both annoyed and relieved. "I thought I was going to have to deal with shouting," he says. "You know what, you're fired."

I scoff at him. "You cain't fire me, I'm sleepin' with the assistant manager; that, an' I don't work here." Finally, his serious expression cracks into a smile and I smile with him. "I came t' pick you up, thought we could do somethin' this afternoon. If y' want to."

"I'd love to." His face lights up and I want to kiss him, but I know he wouldn't appreciate it while he's supposed to be being professional.

"I love _you_ ," I tell him, just to see his cheeks flush. "So. We'll head to your place, you can change if ya want, then we'll go."

He nods. "Sure. I clock out in—" he glances at his watch "—15 minutes. Will you be okay waiting here?"

"Yeah, I'll find somethin' to do."

"Alright then. I'll be back shortly."

"Alright." Again, I wanna kiss him, and judging by the lingering look he gives me, he wants to kiss me, too; but I shouldn't, and he won't, so I kiss the air instead and he blush darkens before he ducks out back.

  


After about fifteen minutes, slender arms slip around my waist as I'm messing with the toddler toys — making a hell of a lotta noise by pressing as many buttons as quickly as possible — having already moved a few puppets into ‘ _lewd positions_ ’. Without saying a word, Nate begins to walk us toward the door; it's more of an awkward shuffle until I manage to turn and hook an arm around his shoulders. I'm not sure how we're not tripping over each other as we make our way through the parking lot. "How was your day?"

Nate sighs, leaning into me so heavily that I stumble a little. "Loud. Busy. Angry people…"

I squeeze his shoulders, hugging him closer. "How ya feelin'?"

"Better now," he says, and as I glance down at him, he smiles tiredly up at me.

  


When we reach his car, Nate leans against the driver's side door, pulling me to him and trapping himself; he slips his hands under the hem of my tshirt, resting them low on my back, and mumbles into my chest. "What was that?"

He groans softly as he leans back and tips his chin up. "Kiss me?"

I duck my head to meet his lips, soft and sweet. Nate's smiling when I pull away, unwinding an arm from my waist and reaching up to cup the corner of my jaw. Then his gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, his fingers curl against my neck, and I duck my head again.

Nate doesn't let me go so easily the second time, cupping the back of my neck and stretching up on his toes and teasing my lips with the tip of his tongue. I can't tell anymore if it's him or the glaring sun that's making me feel hot all over, but _I am_ pretty sure the scalding metal of the roof of his car burns my hand as I brace myself there.

When he pulls away, licking his lips as he settles flat on his feet again, I'm feeling a little breathless and kinda dazed. "Damn, Sugar. Your backseat or mine?" He huffs a laugh, fingers trailing down to my chest, where he pushes lightly until I shuffle back a step. "Alright, fine," I catch his hand as it falls away, "no makin' out in parked cars. We should get goin' anyway."

  


“*”

  


Showered and dressed more comfortably, and having eaten at Matt's gentle insistence, we're headed toward the NY-31A when he asks, "D'you know what today is?" _Saturday…the first of July…the 26th Saturday of the year_ … I think, but I know that none of those will be the answer he's looking for, so I shake my head. "Canada Day," he declares, grinning as he quickly glances at me.

That, I did know, but I didn't know that _Matt_ knew. "Is _that_ why you're wearing that shirt?" Said shirt is a black, short-sleeved, ‘‘I {love} MY CANADIAN BOYFRIEND’’ tshirt, the word love substituted with a love heart with a maple leaf in the center.

"I'm wearin' it 'cause it's true…and _maybe_ 'cause 'a what day it is. Thought maybe you'd like ta do somethin'." He shrugs like it's no big deal, like he hasn't been planning this surprise something for however long. His attempt at nonchalance is incredibly endearing.

"What, with you?" I mock-grimace. "Couldn't you just drop me off there and come back later?"

"I can drop you off right here if ya want," he challenges, reaching for the indicator toggle.

"Fine. I suppose we can spend some time together, but only because I'm in love with you."

"Yeah, well I'm in love with you, too, so I guess we're stuck together."

"Well that's just _fantastic_ ," I quip sarcastically, and Matt beams at me.

  


  


The drive is well over an hour, nearly two, and despite my occasional, playful "Are we there yet?" I'm more than happy watching the scenery rushing past the window and listening to Matt talking about his newest project (even if I'm not sure what a lot of the vocabulary he uses means).

Somewhere along the freeway, he runs out of things to say, and I'm still ‘unwinding’, so music is left to fill the quiet, playing over the sounds of the engine. It's calm and peaceful and Matt reaches over to weave his fingers between mine, resting our joined hands on my lap, and I don't care if we never get to where we're supposed to be going, so long as we can stay like this.

But eventually we reach our destination — Niagara Falls State Park.

It's undoubtedly a popular place; it takes us a few minutes to find a place to park, and inside the park itself, there are couples and families and groups of varying sizes milling around as far as the eye can see. In almost the exact moment that anxiousness begins to knot my stomach, Matt trails the tips of his fingers down the inside of my forearm, and slips his hand into mine. The crowds seem a little less daunting with him at my side — I'm not alone here in this new, strange place, with so many unfamiliar gazes — _I'll be okay_.

After Matt spends a couple minutes thumbing and gazing at his phone screen, he tucks it back into the pocket of his jeans, offers me a smile, and we start walking.

  


-»«•»«-

  


"’M gonna need you to trust me, okay?" I nod without hesitation. "Y' don't even know what imma ask you to do," he says laughingly.

"It doesn't matter, I trust you. You promised that you'd never put me in a situation that could hurt me — I believed it then, and I believe it now."

"Good. 'Cause it's never gonna not be true… I need ya t' close your eyes 'n' keep 'em closed the rest 'a the way, try not t' open 'em 'til I say so. I'll keep ya steady, won't letcha bump inta nothin'."

"I trust you," I reiterate, closing my eyes. Matt kisses my hair and lays a hand on the small of my back, and we're moving.

  


Matt's hand shifts as we walk, sometimes slipping around my waist to draw me closer, other times gently nudging me in one direction or another.

It's a long few minutes before we come to a stop. I feel Matt move to stand behind me, pressing close so that I feel his body against my back, and gently shifts me into the ‘right’ place — all the while I can smell the heavy, damp scent of natural still water, like rain falling on dirt, but cleaner.

"Alright," he says at last, "you can open 'em."

Slowly, I blink my eyes open, gingerly reintroducing them to the bright sunlight. Deep, blue water stretches far and wide under the cloudless sky, glittering where the sunlight plays on its surface. It's beautiful.

"Any idea where we are?" Matt asks softly.

"Where?"

"Lake Ontario; and that…" he ducks his head to rest his chin on my shoulder and lifts a hand from my waist, pointing into the distance "…right across th' water…is Toronto, Canada."

  


My breath leaves me in a quiet rush, and suddenly my chest aches with longing for the world within the silhouetted skyline. I take hold of Matt's hands, pulling his arms around me, grounding myself, and he presses a tiny kiss to my throat. "…You okay? Was this a bad idea?"

"No, it's- I'm… I…I haven't been this close since, since we left. The idea that I've been living so close all this time, and never realised…it's a bit surreal…"

  


Staring out across the water, my mind starts to wander, drifting through what feels like every _‘What if I never left?’_ I've ever thought. "…Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like," I find myself saying. "Would my mother always have been that way, or did something change in her when she decided to move us here…? Would I have nearly as many mental health issues as I do now…? Would I have gone to college? Would I know how to speak French? What would my friends've been like…?"

I twist in his arms, still holding them around me, and crane my neck to try to see his face. "I don't want to know, not really. If I'd stayed there, I doubt I ever would've met you, and I wouldn't trade you for the world…but I can't help but think of how things might have been…"

"I think about it, too. 'Bout how different, how good, how much better things coulda been for you. How much happier you mighta been… I'd give anything for you t' have that."

"I wouldn't let you. I don't want it; not if it meant I couldn't have you."

  


-»«•»«-

  


"I think we should do all this next year, too," Matt muses as we lay side by side on the grass, gazing up at the expanse of clear, blue sky, "the whole week and a bit; next year, an' the year after that, 'an the next one, an' the next…every year 'til we cain't…" My heart staggers in my chest, stumbling into my ribs and tumbles into my gut, twisting it up with nerves and filling it up with pleasant heat all in a matter of seconds. My cheeks are burning and my pulse is loud in my ears as I turn my head to look at him. "…I already know I wanna spend all my years with you; 'm just hopin' you'll let me." Finally, he seems to notice my gaze and turns to meet it. There's a tiny smile on his face, the slightest curve of lips; I'm not sure that he's even realised it's there.

"…Matt…did, did you just…propose to me…?" I ask hesitantly, voice quiet and shaky.

His eyes widen comically, his mouth falling open, moving silently. After a moment of fish-out-of-water gawking, words tumble out, "I- fuck, I, I-I, I guess I did. Shit. Wait. I, uh, wait don't- don't take this the- the wrong way, but I…I didn't mean to. I mean, I do, I wanna marry you, but just…not yet? That sounds like shittiest thing, but I…"

"I understand," I inturrupt, "I really do. I love you more than anything, and I know I never want to be without you, but something about the title, _marriage_ , it feels…too much, too soon."

"Yeah," he sighs, sounding so relieved; his expression softens — his eyes no longer wide and panicked, his gaze now gentle and affectionate, his smile a sweet, warm, thing. "…Nate, will you marry me someday?"

"Yes," I smile, nodding, the word have sighed and half laughed. The answering smile on his face is as big as mine feels, and he leans in, gently cupping the side of my neck to draw me in, and presses soft little kisses to my lips.

I pull back just far enough that he has two eyes rather than one large one. "Wait. What if I intentionally propose to you first?"

"You betcher ass imma say yes."

"Good." I steal a quick kiss. "So, what does that make us now? Engaged to be engaged?"

"Guess it does. Should we send ‘Save The Date to Save The Date’ cards? Are those a thing?"

"I don't think they are, no," I laugh.

"Guess we'll hafta make our own; how good're you with glitter glue?"

  


  


  


"…We are _not_ sending out _S.T.D_ cards; there is _no way_ we're calling them that…!"

  


  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"’M sorry, Baby. Really. Di'n't know she wuz gon kiss me. I di'n't kiss her, she kissed me! ’M sorry. Wudda stopped 'er if I knew she wuz gonna…"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **—Please be aware of updated tags!—**
> 
> I don't condone the use substance abuse in any form, nor to I condone the use of illegal substances.

  


Three days later, we're celebrating America's Birthday in Jared and Millie's backyard.

All of Matt's co-workers are here, and more-than-a-few of Jared and Millie's friends. There are people — talking, laughing, eating, drinking, smoking — everywhere I turn and I only know a handful of them by name; there's smoke in the air that smells almost exclusively of what's probably marijuana. At least 70% of the other party-goers are drunk, but they keep to themselves in a not-unfriendly way, and by some miracle I'm _comfortable_.

  


Somehow, I've found myself sitting on the grass with a friendly, distinctly red-eyed, redhead named Benji — who honest to god cheered at having ‘found a fellow gay at this hetero-fest’ — his fraternal twin, Derek, and ‘the one that gave them the weed’, Lauren.

Benji's trying to teach me how to do a fishtail braid when Matt appears quite suddenly after having been roped into a game of beer pong some time ago. "Hey, Sugar," he drawls, dropping a little clumsily onto the grass beside me, a little of his drink sloshing over the rim of his cup and over his fingers.

Benji immediately disregards the braid in favor of eyeing Matt, offering a flirtatious "Well, _hell-ooo_ ," and little smile.

Matt grins lopsidedly and winks at him. Jealousy flares in my gut, but the very next moment Matt's laughing off the flirtation, looping an arm around my shoulders to pull me to him, and smacking a kiss onto my cheek. "How y' doin', Baby? Havin' fun?"

"I am. I found another gay, _and_ I'm learning to braid hair. Best party ever." Matt laughs, taking a long drink from his cup. "How do you feel about growing your hair?"

Before he can respond, an unfamiliar woman emerges from the tangle of people, calling for him to return to the table. "You okay if I go?"

"Of course," I nod. Matt kisses me quick, his lips tasting perfume-y hot, and lurches to his feet.

  


  


When Matt finds me again a while later, I've retreated to the living room, amusedly listening to a pair of heavy-lidded men trading words of advice in solemn, dazed, voices. "Hey, Sugar, been lookin' for ya." He sits himself heavily in my lap, nearly spilling both of our drinks, but he looks so damn happy to have found me that I can't find it in me to be even a little annoyed. "Thought I was gonna find ya ina corner somewhere, all upset. Sorry I left ya by y'rself, Baby. You okay?" His words come slow, syrupy, and smelling strongly of alcohol.

"I'm fine, Matty, I just needed a little quiet."

"Y' wanna leave? We can leave."

"No, we don't have to leave, it's okay." I reach up to scratch lightly at his stubbled jaw; he fidgets, making himself more comfortable in my lap, throwing his legs over the arm of the chair. "How was beer pong?"

"Kicked ass," he grins. "Here, smell this." He lifts his cup, tipping it toward my face. I bow my head, drawing in a breath — it smells warm and sweet, nothing like floral smokiness that had been on his breath before. Matt takes a little sip and, lips still wet with it, asks, "Wanna taste?"

I close the distance between us, meet the soft press of his lips, licking the taste from my own lips when I part from him; the drink is sweet, almost too sweet, but I don't dislike it, not at all. "It's good. Tastes a lot like Vanilla Coke, actually."

"Mhm. 'S Coke an' Tia-somethin', 's better w' ice but it melted… Hey."

"Mm?"

"Y'know how ya don't like drunk people an' stuff? Well, I think…think I might be kin'a drunk. 'S that mean I sh' leave ya 'lone…?" His admission is so slurred by his mumbling it that the words seem to flow into each other, but it's much the same when he's especially tired, so I understand him well enough.

"I'd say you're a little more than _kind of drunk_ , Peaches, but no, I don't want you to go anywhere. It's more the unpredictability of unfamiliar drunk people that makes me uncomfortable; so you're fine." Granted, I've never seen him drunk before, but I know how he is when he _isn't_ under the influence, and he doesn't seem to be behaving all that differently.

"Good," Matt sighs, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. "’M glad, 'cause I don't wanna make y' uncomf'r'ble. An' I think this mighta made me a li'l clingy," he adds, considering his drink before taking another sip. "…You hungry? 'M hungry."

  


  


A few minutes later I'm in the kitchen with Matt, microwaving more veggie chilli while he's loudly eating the first sloppy joe. "’S really good!" He enthuses as he chews.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," I chuckle, taking the bowl from the microwave.

Before I can scoop it out onto a burger bun, Matt calls to me. "Hey, Baby?"

"Yes?" As I look up at him, I notice the smear of sauce at the corner of his mouth and lean over the counter to thumb it away; he manages to lick the stain from my skin before I move my hand. "…What were you saying?" I prompt.

"Huh?"

"Before I wiped the mess off your face," I remind him gently, "you were going to tell me something."

"Yeah! Wuz, wuz gonna ask y' don't tell Nick." He takes another bite of his food, looking somber as he adds, "He's jus' gon' worry."

I find myself frowning at his sudden change of mood, waiting for him to finish chewing before I ask, "Why would he worry, Sweetheart?"

Matt sighs, setting his burger down and reaches for his cup, frowning when he rediscovers that it's empty. "’Cuz I drank too much. Use ta drink too much before…"

My stomach sinks. "When was that, Baby?" I take his empty cup, rinsing it in the sink and refilling it with water and set it back in front of him. Matt smiles at me, drinking greedily.

"Few years ago," he says eventually. "Was pretty bad. Wayyy too much drinkin'. Don't tell 'im, 'kay? Please?"

"Okay, Baby, I won't tell him," I agree reluctantly, still turning this new information over in my mind.

  


After Matt's finished his burger, eaten the second helping of chilli from the bowl, and been awed when I'd revealed ‘The Stash’ of pink lemonade in the fridge (after asking what the hell I've been drinking all afternoon), we head back outside together, both our cups refilled from ‘The Stash’.

"Hey! There you guys are! Thought you left without saying bye!" Millie throws herself at us, Matt staggering a step at the onslaught, and hugs us tight. "You can't leave without saying bye. Come sit with us, we miss you guys!" She lets us go, reaching between us to part our joined hands and takes them in each of her hands instead leading us to a large group sitting in a loose circle.

There's a cheer of "Hey, the champ's back!" as Matt and I squeeze into a space together; Matt laughs, raising his cup in a mock-toast, and tucks me under his arm. Millie sits herself near us, between Jared's legs, twisting at her waist to cover his mouth with hers as he begins to exhale thick smoke; wisps of it seep from between their lips as they part, sharing a conspiratorial smile.

  


As more time passes, inebriation levels rise, inhibitions sink lower, and I find myself steadily growing more ill at ease. Everyone else seems happy and at peace, but I feel more and more like I'm sitting on eggshells, waiting for the shift in mood. I lean into Matt a little more, and despite his drunkenness, he seems to realise that my want for closeness is more than affection.

He abandons his drink — the lemonade long since finished and replaced with more Coke and _just a little_ Tia-something — and drapes himself around me, his chest to my back, legs wrapped around my waist and folded in my lap, arms circling my shoulders as his chin rests atop my head. It takes a little fidgeting to settle his weight more comfortably, but I _do_ feel considerably better in his koala-like embrace.

  


  


When we decide to leave, Millie walks us to the door, sending us on our way with a noisy, enthusiastic, yet chaste, hands-on-cheeks, kiss pressed soundly to my lips, and then one to Matt's. 

  


  


At Matt's apartment (because I'm tired and it's less of a distance for me to drive) he's babbling earnest apologies as I'm trying to help him out of his jeans (his liquor-sloppy fingers can't cope with the complexity of the button and zipper combination fastening the denim). "’M sorry, Baby. Really. Di'n't know she wuz gon kiss me. I di'n't kiss her, she kissed me! ’M sorry. Wudda stopped 'er if I knew she wuz gonna…"

"Shhh, I know, it's okay. Come here…" I reach up, laying a gentle hand on his cheek to guide him, and press a soft kiss to his lips. "Alright? Better now?"

Matt smiles dopily at me. "Yeah."

"Good. Now, I need you to wiggle out of these—" I pat the denim at his hip "—while I get you some water and some aspirin, and then we're going to sleep this off."

"Can do, Sugar Butt!" he snorts, dropping back onto the bed.

With a roll of my eyes, I leave him to his drunken fumbling.

  


When I return a few minutes later, Matt's nearly tumbling off the end of the bed, naked from the waist down, grumbling and swearing as he tries to detangle his foot from the knot that his jeans and underwear have somehow formed around his left ankle.

I'm laughing so hard that I can hardly help him; he scowls for all of 20 seconds before he's laughing, too.

When he's free from the fabric shackle, he downs the water and the aspirin, flopping boneless back onto the bed, and is almost instantaneously unconscious.

I heft his legs up onto the mattress, coaxing his body into a position that looks a little more comfortable, before stripping down to my underwear, shutting off the light, and joining him in sleep.

  


  


-»«•»«-

  


  


When Matt lumbers into his living room a little after noon the next day, he has a hand over his eyes and is still half-naked — I can't be sure if it's because he hasn't noticed or that he doesn't care. "Good morning."

Matt groans, lifting his hand like a visor to peek from beneath it. "Why?"

"Why good, or why morning?" I tease. He only groans at me again. "Come, sit. I've been looking into hangover cures."

"Ain't drinking no pickle juice 'n' hot sauce bullshit," he grumbles, shuffling his way to the sofa and practically falling down onto the cushions.

I tut at him, "You're no fun," and cross the room to his kitchen, taking a bottle of water and the bowl of grapes from the fridge and take them back to him. "Start with these; I'll get you some aspirin…and some underwear."

Semi-nakedness rectified, Matt manages half the bottle of water, two painkillers, and a decent handful of fruit before declaring himself "not ready f'r this shit," and laying himself across the couch for a nap.

  


He wakes an hour or so later in a milder mood, a gravelly hum rumbling in his throat as I smooth my fingers over the mess of his hair. "Hungry?"

"I could eat…I think."

"Let's see, shall we?"

Matt sits at the table, a new bottle of water and a glass of orange juice in front of him, alternating between sips of the two while I'm roughly mashing chickpeas and avocado. "Last night," he starts; I turn my head to look at him, my hands moving slower for my divided attention; "I, uh…I asked ya not t' call Nick, didn't I?"

"Yeah. You said he'd worry because you used to drink too much…" I'm careful with the words, as if they're fragile, physical things, like spun glass.

He nods, slow, pensive, and stares down at the tabletop. I don't press.

  


Matt doesn't say anything else until he's thanking me for the sandwich I set in front of him (chickpea and avocado with lettuce, tomato, and spicy salsa, because it's one of his favorites, and if he'll eat anything when he's feeling off, it's that), and then falls silent again until he's a little over halfway through it.

  


"If it's okay, I, I think…maybe we should talk about my, uh…" He sighs tiredly, scrubbing a hand over his face and levels me with a cautious gaze. "…My stint with alcoholism."

  


I feel my mouth drop open as I blink dumbly at him. The same unease I felt in Jared's kitchen last night has resettled heavily in my stomach. "…A-alright."

"We- w-we don't have t'…I-I just…we can- another time, if ya…" he stammers, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"If you're ready to talk to me about it now, then I'm ready to listen; if you aren't, then I'll wait."

Matt sighs and nods again. "I think- I think now works."

"Okay."

There's a beat of heavy silence, then he's meeting my eyes and telling me, "First off, I wasn't ever tryna hide it from y', it just never felt like the right time t' bring it up; but I was gon tell you."

I nod my understanding — there were things I'd left unsaid for the longest time, until I couldn't bear to keep them to myself anymore.

Another, shorter, moment of quiet descends.

"…It wasn't a dependency thing. I didn't need t' drink t' get through the day or nothin' — y'know? — not like some people do. And that's not- I don't mean- I mean, I'm sure they got their reasons, but, that wasn't my thing." The look on his face makes it seem very important that I understand that point. I nod again. "I could, _an' I did_ , go days without drinkin'…but…most 'a the time I…wanted to be drunk…"

  


Matt shifts in his seat, scrubbing his face again, running the same hand over his hair, and squeezing the back of his neck. Every visible inch of him screams _I'm uncomfortable, I don't want to do this_ and my chest aches sympathetically. "We don't have to do this now," I remind him gently.

He shakes his head, wry smile nearly a grimace. "Nah, 's okay. Just wasn't my proudest couple 'a months. Ain't talked about it for a while…kin'a worried I'd talk m'self back into it. Addictive personality and all." His eyes are sad, and his smile forced and humorless.

"It was a…fucked up kinda control thing, for me," he continues. "I figured, if my head was gonna be fucked up, all shitty and jumbled up, then…why not try t' make it on my own terms — if I was gonna feel so outta control all the time an' wake up feeling like shit, then least I'd know why. Fuckin' stupid. Know that now. Think I probably knew it then, but somethin' told me- made me feel like it was my best option, an', 'cause I was a _fuckin' moron_ , I listened to it."

"Do you…ever feel like that now?"

He frowns a little, mouth moving soundlessly as he tries to decide his answer. "’S not like it was. Hasn't been that way for a long, _long_ time," he says at last. It isn't a yes or a no, but maybe it was silly of me to expect an answer so simple.

Matt reaches for his glass of juice, but changes his mind just before his fingers touch it, and picks up the water bottle instead, taking a long pull. I tear a piece of bread off of my own sandwich, popping it into my mouth for something to do — other than stare at Matt as I wait for him to continue. "…I was in a real bad place, an' I went an' got too drunk. Blacked out, and it scared the shit outta me. My ‘controlled out of control’ gettin' away from me, was… _not good_ , so I finally listened t' _ev'erybody_ , 'n' got help… Nick was- I called him most when I was drinkin', when I was at m' worst. Didn't want him t' think I was gettin' bad again; 's why I asked you not t' call 'im. I don't want you t' worry either, best as you can help it. Last night wasn't on purpose, I swear I didn't mean ta drink that much." He's staring into my eyes from across the table, his expression so open, vulnerable and sincere.

"I believe you. And I love you, and thank you for telling me."

"But…?"

"There's no but. We both knew, before this became a romantic relationship, that we each had things to work through; that understanding hasn't changed just because we're sleeping together." The simplification doesn't sit well with me — what we have is so much _more_ than that, but it isn't what I should be focusing on right now, so I nudge the discomfort aside and continue; "It wasn't a _happy_ thing to learn about you, but I'm glad that I know, I'm grateful that you would share that with that with me. The more I know and understand about you, the easier it will be to support you, and that's all I want. I love you, Matt, and I want you to be happy, and I want to help you be happy."

" _Jesus_ ," he sighs, a soft smile on his face. "What'd I ever do to deserve you?"

"I ask myself the same thing about you."

  


-»«•»«-

  


We're settled on the couch together, Matt's head pillowed on my chest when his voice startles me — I thought he'd fallen asleep a while ago. "Y're goodit all that. Talkin'. Listenin'. Makin' people feel heard, y'know? Really does help t' talk t' you."

I feel my cheeks flush and something like pride swelling in my chest. "Thank you. I'm glad you feel that way."

"Bet I wouldn't be the only one. You're easy to talk to."

I run my hand up and down his spine in a silent thanks and he sighs dreamily.

I've always liked the idea of helping people, children specifically — children that grew up like Matt and I, dealing with anxiety and traumatising experiences — but I never really thought I'd be much good at it.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe I could do more good than I thought.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter already?! What?! I was up until 5 o'clock this morning, writing this, then woke up about 10:30 because I apparently couldn't wait to get it double checked, edited, and posted. 
> 
> I have work this evening. It's gonna kill me. I'm gonna die.


	7. Chapter 7

  


  


We've been fine for weeks, then we're not.

I don't remember how it started. Was it something I did or something Nate said? Something he said about what I did? I don't remember. All I know is that voices got raised — I don't know whose was first; it doesn't matter, I guess — tempers flared, and now he's glaring at me like he wants to deck me, and I'm shouting at him; "I never lied to you!"

"A lie of omission is still a _lie_."

"I don't hafta tell you everything! I keep one thing to myself, 'cause it ain't even that big a fuckin' deal, a-and you loose y'r shit over it! I tell you I didn't lie t' ya, an' you're still fuckin' mad at me. I-I don't know what you want from me, y' don't make any sense!"

"No, you're right, shame on me for not appreciating being lied to."

"Christ! I never fuckin' _lied to you_! I- what d'you want from me? Was I s'posed t'- t'- t' prepare a goddamn PowerPoint an' sit ya down? You want me t' write down every-fuckin'-thing I do durin' the day, give you a neat little list t' read over at night?"

"I wouldn't have cared _how_ you told me, all that would have mattered is that you _did_!"

"Alright, fine!" I snap, my voice high and sharp. "You want me to tell you? Will you stop actin' like a lunatic if I tell you? _Fine_. I'm smokin' again, have been for a couple weeks. Okay?"

"No! No, it's not okay, because there's more than that, and you know it."

"No, I don't know. I don't know what the fuck you want. You want me to tell you, I told you, it's not good enough. Why don't you just tell me what the fuck you wanna hear, instead 'a all this cryptic bullshit? Tell me what t' say so we can just be done with this. I'm sick of it. I don't wanna deal with it anymore."

The icy coldness melts away from his eyes, leaving them shiny and wet. His jaw works for a minute before he's telling me thickly, "I think you should leave."

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"

"No." He swallows hard. "I, I want you to leave. Now."

"Fine. Fuck this. An' y' know what, fuck you. You want me gone, I'm gone. Don't think imma call you, apologisin'."

He doesn't say another word as I head to the door. I can feel him watching me go, but I don't look at him. It's not a slam, but I pull the door shut harder than I need to as I walk out. It doesn't make me feel any better.

  


I sit in the car and smoke. One, after another, after another.

When hot ash drops onto the back of my arm, it takes me a moment longer than it should to brush it off.

  


  


-//--//--//--//--//-

  


  


It's four in the afternoon and I've been awake for maybe an hour when there's a knock on my door. There's a kid down the hall, maybe 11, that brings me a couple of her glasses-cleaning wipes whenever she gets a new box — she says I'm the only other person on this floor that wears glasses, and she's seen me clean mine with the hem of my shirt, and that I'm not supposed to do that, her optometrist says so; her mom says she doesn't have many friends. So I assume it's her, and go to the door.

But when I open it, Nate's standing there.

My heart squeezes tight, crams itself up into my throat, then swan dives into the pit of my stomach.

It's been four days, and I miss him. I'm still mad at him, I'm not one for holding grudges, but something about the other day is just stuck under my skin. I'm still mad at him, but when I couldn't sleep last night, or the night before, I wanted him here, tracing idle patterns on my skin and making the quiet comfortable.

Somehow, none of that makes my tone of voice any nicer; "What?"

"I came to talk to you," he tells me, voice quiet and stiff. "I would've called, but I know you wouldn't've answered. There are still things I need to say."

"You're sayin' that like I just up and left. You kicked me out, remember?"

"Yes, and I shouldn't have. I was angry, and…there were words said that I…I took them to heart, maybe made more of them th-than I should have…" he bites at the inside of his lip. He doesn't do it often, but I recognise the gesture — his mind's going a mile a minute with things he wants to say, and his mouth wants to catch up but he's stopping it, trying to decide on the ‘perfect’ words and phrasing first.

"It's been four fuckin' days, Nate," I sigh, suddenly feeling tired. "Just let it go." I know being hypocritical, but I'm kind of hoping it might prompt him into an apology, so I can forgive him and try to stop being mad. _Is that manipulative?_ I could apologise, but I _can't_. I can barely consider apologising, let alone getting the words out. I'm not wrong. I wasn't wrong. _Was I…?_

"I tried to," he continues, "but I can't. I need you to hear what I have to say."

"So you came over here to start another fight?"

He sighs wearily, shaking his head. "No," he says, the edge to his voice blunting. "I didn't mean to start a fight the first time, I just…" He sighs again, gaze flitting to the floor and back up; it looks like he braces himself before he asks, "May I come in and talk to you? Please?"

  


For a minute, I just stand in the door way, looking at him, acting like I'm considering it.

I'm gonna let him in, of course I am. Nate wants to talk to me, and not a lot of people can say that. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to try to understand his side. I don't want to be mad at him anymore, and I don't want _him_ to be mad at _me_.

But I don't know how well this is gonna go, I don't know if it's gonna end up being another four days of being angry and not seeing each other, so I'm gonna look at him while I can, just in case.

He stares back at me the whole time, and I kinda like to think that he's thinking along the same lines.

I don't think I'm supposed to notice the whisper-soft sigh he lets out as I step aside to allow him in. But I do.

  


Nate doesn't take his shoes off. He's worried then, that he'll have a reason not to stay long.

He makes his way to the couch and sits himself down. I stop in the kitchen first, grabbing a couple bottles of water from the fridge; I set one in front of him, on the coffee table, and set the other in front of myself as I drop down into the armchair. It's way more formal than we're used to by now — he usually helps himself if he wants anything — and I don't know if he'll even drink it, but I can't not offer (if this technically counts as offering).

He stops glaring disdainfully at the nearly-full repurposed coffee cup/ashtray to thank me.

It's a long, tense, couple minutes before he speaks up again.

"I realise that maybe _lying_ wasn't the right word, but I still believe that you weren't being entirely _honest_ with me. I…I was angry because I couldn't understand why you decided to…to keep things from me, I… It…hurt to feel like I wasn't worth telling."

"’Cause you tell me everything, right?" I wince a little at the harshness of my tone, how it makes Nate flinch.

"I try to. There are things that I'm not ready to talk about yet, but I know that when I can, I will. But I'm not sure that it's the same for you."

"So…s-so- so what? Y' think I don't trust you? Everything else I told you don't count for shit no more 'cause I di'n't tell y' 'm smokin'?"

Nate's shaking his head. "It's not the smoking, Matt. N-not just that. It's…everything else." He looks up from the floor, looking at me like I'm just supposed to understand what the fuck ‘everything else’ is. When he realises I don't, he sighs, _disappointed_ , and it makes my throat feel tight, makes my breath hitch. I try to swallow it, but it won't budge.

  


I'm not ready for this after all, I'm not done being angry yet, but the fight's so obviously gone from him that it's getting harder every second to stay angry. I can't stand the sadness, the disappointment on his face. It hurts to see. It's hard enough seeing it in anyone else, but from him…I can't. I just can't. It's…

The tightness in my throat is choking me now and my arm's burning with the ghost of nails digging in. I fold my hands, press them between my knees. I sigh, fidget, trying to dislodge the panicky feeling that's sinking into my chest, but it isn't working.

"Matt…?" Nate's voice is softer now, not scripted-sounding and stony anymore. Not just _soft_ , but _sad_ , and it's my fault. He was angry the other day because he was hurting. _I_ hurt him.

My heart hurts. My stomach sinks. "Y're givin' more'n y're gettin'." I manage through the tightness.

"No, n-no, that- that isn't what I meant."

"’S true. You just want me t' talk t' you, an' I didn't. Asked me for so little, an' I couldn't give it t' you. Ain't fair. You- you deserve better." I wouldn't blame him if he went looking for it. All he does for me, and I wouldn't give him the one little thing he asked for…

  


"Matt?" I hadn't realised I'd closed my eyes until I'm opening 'em. I hadn't realised I'm scratching at the backs of my hands until Nate casts a pointed glance at them, and suddenly they're stinging. I look down at them — my skin is burning red, it's not broken, but angry-red welts have risen where my nails have been dragging over it. I unfold my hands, but I don't know what to do with them now.

"This…this is…what I mean," he says, slow and careful with the words, like they'll fall apart if they leave his mouth too quickly. Like _I_ might fall apart from hearing them. "You- did you even realise you were doing it?"

The tightness in my throat is finally, suddenly, too much and my eyes are prickling. "No."

I'm not supposed to do this anymore. I'm not supposed to _be like this_ anymore. I'm better. I _was_ better. What did I do wrong? I can't let myself get like that. I can't. I have to keep my shit together. Nate needs me and I can't be there for him if I get bad again. I can't get like that again. I have to be better than that.  
But what if I can't? What if the best is over? I was doing good, but maybe it's over now, 'cause it never fucking lasts. I'm gonna drag him down with me. He's too good to walk away, he won't leave me and I'll end up dragging him down with me–

"Matt. Please. Please look at me."

Everything's a wet blur until I drag my eyes up from my lap, knocking the tears free to roll down my cheeks. "’M sorry," I choke. "’M sorry, Baby."

"It's- it…it'll be okay." But it's not now. "This is…why I wanted you to talk to me. I-I could see it, but I didn't want…want to make it worse. I thought that if I brought it up, made you think about it… I'm sorry. I should have found a better way to talk to you about it."

I'm shaking my head before he's even finished talking, tugging my glasses off my face to scrub the tears away. "’S not y'r fault. 'S not up t' you t' fix me."

"You don't need _fixing_ , Matt." Even with my vision blurred, and spotty from the pressure against them, I see Nate standing from the couch and coming to kneel in front of me. "You don't need to be fixed, you aren't broken. Maybe everything isn't exactly where it should be, but that's okay. _You're_ okay."

He scoots closer, easing himself between my knees; gentle hands come up to cup my cheeks, his thumbs stroking slowly, catching tears on his skin. I don't deserve this from him, I hurt him.

I don't deserve to kiss him either, but he lets me, and kisses me back, slow and sweet, and he loves me, I can feel it, and I love him, so much that my chest is aching with it and I can hardly breathe.

I want him to know, _need_ him to. I need him to feel it from me like I do from him. My arms find their way around his waist, drawing him closer; my mouth is desperate on his — _I love you. I'm sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you_.

His mouth parts from mine too soon. Our breaths mingle in the sliver of space between us before he kissing me again, tender, chaste touches, and whispering between them; "It's okay… Shhh, I know. I know. I love you, too… You're okay, Matty, and we're okay… I love you."

  


  



	8. Chapter 8

  


  


Slowly, the tears stop — the last few that slide down his skin take all the emotion from his face, but in his eyes, reddened from exertion, there is pain and fear, and he looks…lost. After a long moment, he begins to lean away from me and I let him go, scooting to the side, close enough to touch or be touched without crowding him.

I'm watching him, for what, I'm not sure, and he's looking right back at me like he's waiting for something. Whatever he might have been waiting for apparently isn't all that important, because after just a moment, he's reaching past me, toward the coffee table. As he snatches up the cigarette packet, I think that maybe he wasn't waiting, but debating something — I couldn't say which side won.

  


The skin on the backs of his hands has started to pale, and they're shaking a little as he sets a cigarette between his lips. The lighter _click-click-click_ s, sparking, but producing no flame. A few more rushed attempts follow before he's tossing the offending object onto the table and tearing the cigarette from his mouth to follow it; he growls as he throws himself back into the chair. Hands in white-knuckled fists on his thighs, right knee bouncing, eyes shut, he murmurs to himself, too lowly for me to make out the words.

I shouldn't encourage it — enable it — but I find myself reaching for the items on the table: there's no fuel left in the disposable lighter…but I know there are matches in one of the drawers in the kitchen.

I take the coffee cup-come-ashtray with me, emptying its contents into the trash can, and return with it, and the matchbox, to my spot on the floor near Matt's feet. As I set the cup on the table, his eyes open, and I can feel him watching me as I pick up the discarded cigarette; he leans forward, taking the filter end between his lips when I offer it to him — he looks both grateful and apologetic as I hold a lit match to the open end.

  


I sit back against the sofa, watching almost-blue-grey smoke curling up into the air, billowing dusty-white from Matt's mouth as he exhales it. As soon as the first cigarette has been smoked away, Matt lights up another. My nose wrinkles as the ashy-chemical smell worsens.

I can't help but wonder if maybe Matt didn't talk to me because he somehow hadn't realised there was something to be talked about.

I wonder, not for the first time, what he meant when he said he was ‘done with this’, what it was exactly that he didn't ‘want to deal with’ anymore — _the arguing_ , I tell myself, _not us, not me_ … But I don't _know_ that… He's been withdrawn, distancing himself… _but not from me, not_ just _me_. This isn't about _us_ , but _him_.

  


"’M sorry." Matt's voice, quiet as it is, breaks the silence so suddenly that I'm startled by it. "You were sayin' somethin' an' I…did all that. Interrupted. Sorry."

"It's alright… I just…" I breathe deep. I've rehearsed the words over and over in my head, but still my heart is pounding, I'm terrified that I'll say something wrong, that I'll make this all worse; but I have to say something; it can't get better if I don't try. "…It wasn't your fault, any of it. I was upset because I was worried about you. I noticed that you…weren't doing well, and somehow I thought that asking you about it, making you think about and focus on it, would make it worse; and I only got more upset when you weren't talking to me about it… I was being selfish. For a moment I was more concerned with why you wouldn't tell me what was bothering you, than what the issue was… I could see that you were struggling and I wanted to help you, but I felt like you wouldn't let me, that you didn't want me to, and that shouldn't have been my focus. I'm sorry… That's what I came here to tell you; that I shouldn't have been angry with you at all, I shouldn't have treated it as my right to know how you were feeling and I shouldn't have expected you to tell me. I'm sorry, Matt."

I watch him take another drag of his cigarette, long and deep until the paper has burned down to his fingers; he exhales just as slowly, the plume of smoke thinly clouding his face, and drops the butt of the smoked-out cigarette into the cup. "…I was doin' the same thing. Tryna ignore it." His voice is flat and hollow, the whites of his eyes reddened from his tears. "I shoulda talked but I…I guess I didn't know what t…" the word melts into a yawn, his whole body sagging as he exhales. "…Sorry, I, uh, didn't sleep too good."

"Should I go? Let you sleep?"

Matt yawns again, shaking his head — part of me feel guilty at the thought that I woke him only to upset him, another is elated that he wants me here despite the fact. "Y' don't have to," he manages, still yawning, his eyes watering now; he rubs at them, smearing the wetness around his eyes, but doesn't seem to care. "You busy? C-could y' stay for a bit?"

"Of course." I nod so enthusiastically, answer so quickly that if it had been anyone else, I'd probably have been embarrassed.

  


Laying beside him on his bed has _never_ felt this way, never so awkward; I've never felt so unsure here, not even the first time.

And then he rolls toward me, reaches timidly for my hand, pulling it gently to his chest when I weave my fingers between his, and the awkwardness is gone — we'll be okay, I know it, I can feel it.

  


"…I'm not gettin' over this. Feelin' shitty like this," he says quietly, like a confession.

"You will, Matt—" he's already shaking his head "—you've done it before, and you can do it again, I know you can."

"Nate, I'm- 'm not bein' dramatic. It's, uh, Dysthymia. Chronic depression. So, I'll get past this one, but there's gonna be another low, there's _always_ gonna be another… I take my meds, go to sessions, I shouldn't be feelin' like this, I do everything they tell me, but somethin' in my head is broken. Been broken a long time, an' no one knows a way t' fix it."

He's squeezing my hand like he's afraid I'll pull it away from him…like I'll let him go… I wiggle a little closer, close enough that I can see the beginnings of tears shimmering in his eyes. "When will we stop having these ‘leave me, I'm no good for you’ talks? I think we both know now that they're a waste of time and energy." Matt's laugh is weak but genuine. "Try to sleep, Matty. I'll be right here when you wake up."

I feel his sigh against my fingers before he kisses them and his eyes slide shut.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken _forever_ , and I feel like it wasn't worth the wait, but it really was the best I could do… I'm already working on the next chapter, and I'm hoping to have it up soon (as in, not another _20 days!_ ).


	9. Chapter 9

  


As promised, Nate was there when I woke up. The first time and the second, then the third…forth…fifth. Sometime between the forth and fifth wakings, Nate had fallen asleep, so I spent a little while looking at him, wondering just how much he'd put up with before he decided I wasn't worth it, and praying that we never reach that point.

  


This morning, while I picked at a slice of toast, Nate suggested going to the dollar store to pick up an ashtray — "Not that I like the idea of you smoking, I don't at all, but something about your using a coffee cup makes me uncomfortable." — and without really thinking, I'd agreed.

The problem was, I guess, that I was too worried about upsetting him by saying no, that I didn't hear the part of myself that was hating the idea.

And now we're walking through the parking lot, towards the store, and my chest feels too big for the too thin air I'm breathing.

  


The inside of the store is too big but too small. It's supposed to be a big store, judging by the outside of the building, but there's so many people in here that it barely feels any bigger than my apartment. It feels like I'm drowning in a sea of people. My stomach's tangling up as I'm moving further into the crowd and I'm looking for gaps, spaces to slip between people, into other aisles, _ways out_. I know what I need, but not where to find it, and that just makes it all worse — it means I'll have to spend even longer in here now. _Fuck_.

I wanna call it quits and go home, I don't wanna spend anymore time picking my way through the crowd with my hands balled in painfully tight fists in my pockets.

There's a gentle hand on my arm, an almost cautious "Matt?"

And an unfamiliar voice calling, "Nate?" We both turn at the sound of his name, and there's some guy beaming at Nate, like he's the greatest thing the dude's seen all day. "Hey!"

Nate smiles right back at him, not as big, but just as friendly. "Dylan. How are you?"

"Good, I'm good. You?"

"Fine, thank you." As they've been talking, Nate's hand has been inching down my arm, and almost instinctively at this point, I pull my hand out of my pocket for him to hold; his fingertips tickle down my palm before he takes hold of my hand. "Dylan, this is Matt."

" _The_ Matt?" He asks incredulously. Nate nods, and the guy looks stupidly happy about it. "That's great! I'm glad it all worked out for you, Nate, I really am. Matt, 's nice to meet you, heard _a lot_ about you." Nate fidgets beside me and from the corner of my eye I see his cheeks pinken. "If there ever was a grudge, there definitely wouldn't be now; totally get it."

"Grudge? Over what?" I find myself asking, suddenly defensive, then almost in the same moment, it clicks — Nate dated a Dylan back when we were just friends… "Wait. I know you. Of you, I mean. Y'all dated for a minute, a while back."

The guy looks a little sheepish now and Nate's bringing his free hand up to squeeze my arm, just below my elbow, almost hugging my arm. "Uh, yeah — four? — four dates, pretty amiable split. There was this Matt guy that Nate had the hots for — tall, tattooed, great smile, great a– uh, _personality_ ," Nate's face turns a little more red as the guy winks playfully at him. The pinch of jealous anger only adds to the discomfort of this entire situation, not just _Dylan_ , but being here at all. _I really wanna go home_. "A-anyway, I better go and letcha guys get back to whatever you were here for." He's already taking little steps backward. "Good to see you again, Nate, and nice ta meetcha, Matt. Get married, have cute babies, call me to babysit!" And he's turning around, into the crowd, and letting them swallow him up.

  


"…Did he say ‘have babies’? He knows that ain't possible, right? That we, _two men_ , caint make a baby?"

"I think so, yes," Nate laughs, manoeuvring us around a group of teenagers. "I'm pretty sure he was joking…I don't _think_ he's the cute-but-stupid type…" There's another jealous pinch at that, but I try to ignore it.

"Maybe we shouldn't call 'im to babysit, just in case. Don't want 'im teachin' our kids to fish Pop Tarts outta the toaster with forks."

"I don't think we'll have to worry about that; there's no way I'd let our children eat Pop Tarts."

" _What? Baby!_ They're a staple of childhood, they're to go-to fuel of teenagers! Kids _need_ Pop Tarts!"

"I'm afraid I have to disagree with you, I did just fine without them. Or Hot Pockets, Moon Pies, or Kraft mac 'n' cheese."

"What did you eat?!"

" _Fruit_ , Matt," he laughs. "I ate fruit and vegetables."

He's a little too focused on steering us through the crowd to notice the look I give him. "Y're tellin' me that when ya had a taste for junk food, you went an' grabbed a lemon or some shit?"

"Yes, and I ate it rind and all," he deadpans. "I'd eat onions like apples, and instead of candy, I'd suck on rocks. Oh, no, forget I said that," he says quickly, "I reminded myself of _Grave of the Fireflies_. Should never have watched that movie…"

Gently, I tug him back a step, pulling my hand free from his to curl my arm around his shoulders. "Think of… _Ponyo_. When she's runnin' on those weird li'l chicken legs. And the rechargeable lamp and the ramen. The baby and the soup."

Nate leans into me for just a second, his arm going around my waist and the tips of his fingers tucking themselves into the front pocket of my jeans. "I love those weird little chicken legs."

"Good thing, since you got a pair."

"Rude!" He laughs, untucking his hand to slip it under the hem of my shirt, purposely pinching too lightly to hurt. I squeeze his shoulders in retaliation and he huffs another laugh, steering us into the next aisle.

  


By the time we're walking back to the car, I'm so tense that my shoulders kinda feel sore.

  


Nate sits in the front passenger seat with the door open, while I smoke, leaning on the side of the car. "How're you feeling?"

"Definitely ready to get the fuck outta here," I tell him, flicking ash onto the asphalt. Nate leans forward, out of the open door, and lays a sympathetic hand on my thigh. "Can I ask ya somethin'? 'Bout, uh, Dylan?" I ask after a slow in and exhale.

"Of course."

"He said it was an amiable split… Guess I'm wonderin' _why_ y'all split; didn't seem like a bad guy."

"It was, and he was very nice, friendly, funny… _but_ …he wasn't you."

"What, a sarcasm-spoutin' south'ner with more ink on m' arms 'n sense?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Nate smiling warily. His expression softens as he starts talking, "He wasn't so easy to talk to; there wasn't the shared understanding of unintentional awkwardness; he isn't _nearly_ as handsome as you are, he's lacking an unfairly arousing accent, and he doesn't have _any_ tattoos."

When I duck my head to smile at him, he's already looking up at me. _Looking_ at me and _smiling_ , like he thinks I'm the best thing he's ever seen. "I don't know why I ever dated anyone that wasn't you."

I pull my hand out of my pocket, laying it over his. "Don't know how I coulda been so dumb to tell you no the first time you asked me out. Biggest mistake I ever made."

"Well believe me, you've more than rectified it."

  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> **~Hey! Listen!~**  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter deals with heavy stuff — it's largely a Depressive Episode, featuring a huge neglect of self-care (basic needs, not the bath bombs and scented candles type), negative thoughts/feelings, and something like suicide ideation — so PLEASE take care of yourself and skip this chapter if you think it may be upsetting or triggering for you. Or if you start reading and find yourself getting upset, Please Stop Reading. 
> 
>  
> 
> _It's okay to stop reading part-way through. It's okay not to read it at all._

  


I've been like this for days.

I haven't showered or brushed my teeth, my head itches where my hair's so gross. I haven't really eaten. I'm not hungry.

I've been in bed for days. Sleeping, mostly; 'cause it passes time, turns one day into the next. Every time I close my eyes, I hope that when I open 'em, things'll be better.

Ain't a lot t' ask. I just want tomorrow to be better than today, and all today is is numbness, and staring at the ceiling and wondering why I don't feel anything, and sleep, and staring at the wall and telling myself that if I just get up I could shower, that I'd probably feel good after a shower.

  


Nate comes and goes; leaves for work in the morning, and comes to check on me in the evening. He's slept on the couch the past few nights — my tossing and turning and sporadic video-gaming keep him up. I'm asleep sometimes, when he leaves or when he comes back, but, without fail, there'll be a pill and a fresh bottle of water, and a container of something on my bedside table when I wake up. The first time he came over, he'd looked worried. I was worried, too — worried that I'd never get outta this bed, that I'd waste away here… I'm still worried. I'm worried that he'll finally realise that the filthy, pathetic, bed-ridden mess I've become isn't worth it, and he'll leave. I'm terrified. I still can't do anything about it.

He's here now, but he'll be leaving soon, any minute now. I've been awake all night. I heard him get up. I've been listening to him get ready to leave and it's making everything worse — the weight on my chest gets heavier, my throat tightens up, my eyes are prickling — I feel like I'm never gonna see him again. _Nate's gonna leave and he'll never come back_.

My eyes are closed, but tears are still slipping free; I can't make them stop, no matter how much I want to, not even when I hear the bedroom door opening. I'm facing the door. I can't move. I can't hide. "Matt? Are you awake?"

I can't answer him. If I open my mouth, I'll beg him to _stay with me, please stay, please don't leave me_. But that's not fair. He shouldn't have to see me like this. I don't want him seeing me like this; it's embarrassing. He'd stay if I asked him to, I know he would, because he's worried about me. But why? He has so much more going on, so much more to deal with…and he gets out of bed every day. Every single day he gets up and does something, makes use of his days.

Why can't I do that? Why am I stuck here, feeling nothing but sorry for myself…?

"Matt, do you need me to stay with you today?" I shake my head, and I don't know why, but my eyes come open; I see him standing there, just inside the door, looking at me. I want to reach out for him, but I don't, I can't.

He comes closer anyway, kneeling on the floor in front of me, and I'm not drifting alone anymore but I almost feel caged in instead. It doesn't make sense. I don't want to be alone but this feels like too much. Everything's too much.

And then I'm choking and my eyes are burning and blurred by tears and words are just spilling out. "I can't get up. I know I should. I want to but I can't. I…I've been sss-st-stuck here for days! I just- I can't get outta bed. I don't- I don't know what's- what's wrong with me! I don't know what to do! I don't know why I can't- wh-why can't I…?"

The blanket's pushed down to free my arms and Nate's hugging me and I'm squeezing him tight before I can even think about it. The angle must be uncomfortable and I know I'm holding him too tight, but I can't let him go; and he doesn't try to make me. He doesn't shush me and promise everything's gonna be okay — and I'm glad, 'cause I wouldn't believe him — he just holds me, and lets me hold him.

  


  


"I cain't do it anymore. 'M tired. I'm done," I tell him, mumbling — it's the best I can do. Nate's leaning against the bed now, holding my left hand in both of his. "It never really gets better, 'n' I cain't keep fightin' it…I don't know why I'm tryin' anymore, it's not gon change… I just wanna close my eyes. I just want it t' stop."

"…I'll help you." _Shouldn't need help. No one else does. Pitiful_. "Let me help you, Matt. Please."

"I just wanna sleep. I'm tired, Baby…'m tired of thinkin' I'm winnin' when I'm not. I'm done with it." My eyes are burning, but tears don't come.

Nate scoots closer, draping my arm across his shoulders and rests his head on the edge of the mattress. "Maybe…" he whispers, reaching up to touch the arm my head is pillowed on. "…Maybe it's not a win or lose sort of thing… You just keep going. You set your own goals, and you reach them in your own time… I know it's hard; I don't know how hard it is _for you_ , but I know it isn't easy…especially to do alone… _Please_ let me help you. Please don't give up."

"…I'm so sick 'a feelin' like this…"

"I know." The hand touching my arm moves to my face, the backs of his fingers featherlight against my jaw, softy stroking the scratchy hair there. "Try to rest. We'll see how you feel when you wake up, okay?"

My fingers curl, forming a feeble fist around his shirt. "Stay. Please."

"I have to call work and tell them I won't be there today, but I'll come right back." My throat tightens, my stomach sinks, but I nod, and my grip on his shirt loosens up.

  


Nate comes back a couple minutes later with the phone still pressed to his ear, and a bowl in his other hand. "…Yes, it just needs to b-…yes…" he sets the bowl on the bedside table, grabbing the bottle of water "…she'll be in for 10…" wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder, and twists the cap off, dropping it onto the table "…I have to go…it's alright. I'm turning my phone off, you'll have to call Justin… Thank you…bye." He taps at his phone for a minute, then shoves it in his pocket.

Guilt settles in my gut, heavy and cold. _I'm causing problems, I shouldn't've asked him t' stay_. "Sorry. F-f'r all 'a this."

"You have nothing to be sorry for; they'll be fine, they don't need me there. Even if they did, it wouldn't matter; _you_ need me, and I want to be here with you… Is it alright to touch you? I'm sorry I didn't ask before."

"Yeah," I choke, "yeah, 's okay."

Nate steps closer, smoothing a hand over my hair, down my neck, down between my shoulder blades…and back over my hair, over and over, smooth and steady, even when I reach out and loop an arm around his hips. I close my eyes, try to relax into it, but I can't. I'm exhausted, I wanna let it lull me to sleep, but my mind's goin' a mile a minute with _should_ s and _shouldn't_ s and _can't_ s and _why_ s; so I open my eyes again, turning the volume down.

Nate's soft inquiry quietens it a little more; "…Do you think you could sit up? Drink some water?" I nod. I'm lying. It'll take more strength than I've got. But he's standing there, waiting, and the expectation is pinching under my skin and in my chest, and my heart's beating faster.

Nate's hand is still in my hair as I pull my arm back from around him…use it to push myself up onto my elbows; his hand moves away and my arms are trembling as I push myself higher. I wanna let 'em give out. It's not sitting up like he asked, but when I've got my weight balanced between a hand and my hip, he smiles at me — it's good enough — and carefully hands over the bottle he's been holding.

By the time I've stopped to breathe, the bottle's almost half empty and Nate's got my pills in his hand and a gentle smile on his face. I fidget until I'm sitting properly and when I hold out my hand, Nate pops a pill out of the tray and onto my palm; I swallow it, and the rest of the water.

  


The room isn't cold, but it's not as warm as it is under the blanket, and I've got goosebumps on my arms. I've hunched forward, brought my knees up to my chest, and Nate's sitting on the bed with me, the bowl from the bedside table in his lap — it's full of cherry tomatoes; I don't know why it makes me want to laugh, but it does.

I don't want one, but when he offers me a tomato, I take one. It's heavy in my mouth, bland when I bite into it; it takes so much effort t' chew it. Swallowing it is easier, but my stomach's already feeling uncomfortable from all the water.

I don't want it, but when Nate offers another, I know I should take it, so I do.

Nate's slowly eating them with me, no expectation on his face when he offers them, and when I reject them after about five, he just sets the bowl aside like it's no big deal.

"…How do I help you?" The question's so soft spoken that I almost think Nate's thinking out loud. "Do I leave you to come out of it in your own time? Do I push you…? I don't want to do this the wrong way, and make this harder for you."

I don't know what to tell him — everyone did things their own ways, and those ‘ways’ changed between my childhood and teenage years…and for the past five years, I've been dealing with it alone; I don't know what works and what doesn't, I don't know what I need… "…What-whatever this is feels okay." I dunno if it'll work long term, or even in an hour, but _right now_ , it's okay.

  


  


I get up a little while later to go to the bathroom; as I'm stepping back out into the living room, Nate looks up from the puzzle he's piecing together on the coffee table, and smiles at me. "Hi."

"Hey." I manage a smile back, but it feels brittle.

"How're you feeling?"

"Uh…I dunno. Low, I guess? But it's, uh…sorta…levelled out."

"Well, that's better than worse," he offers. I make a little ‘yup’ sorta noise, shifting my weight. I feel weirdly exposed, and I just wanna crawl back in bed. "I was…" he starts hesitantly, "I was wondering, since you're up, how you might feel about a shower?" My body feels heavy all of a sudden and something like dread is churning in my stomach. He must see it on my face or something, 'cause he's hurrying to add, "It's alright if you don't feel up to it, we can try another time. I just thought that maybe we should try to use the momentum."

I'm nodding, waiting for words to make it to my mouth. "Yeah, y're- y're right. I just…feel weird about it. I dunno why."

"Are you worried that I'll ask more of you after your shower?"

"I- m-maybe."

"Honestly, I had nothing else in mind. I thought you might like a shower, and I could change your sheets for you," he says softly.

It's like an emotional sucker punch to the throat — gratitude and adoration…shame, annoyance and frustration at myself — and I'm choking on it. "That…that sounds good."

He's smiling, but he doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure? You look a bit unsteady on your feet. Would a bath be better?"

The heavy feeling's been slowing getting worse the longer I've been standing, and my legs are starting to feel a little wobbly…but a shower just sounds _better_ ; that, and I'd probably loose “enthusiasm” for the whole idea while the tub's filling up. "Nah, shower's good."

Nate nods, getting to his feet. "I'll get you a towel and turn the water on."

"Thank you."

  


My legs go from heavy, to kinda numb, to being poked at by dull pins and needles, while I'm showering, and I get so frustrated with the ache in my legs _and_ my arms, that I end up perching on the edge of the tub, leaning forward with my elbows pressed into my knees, while I work shampoo into my hair.

Clothed in the tshirt and sweatpants Nate left folded on top of the laundry hamper, I stand at the sink, brushing my teeth, ignoring the cold water dripping down my neck from my hair.

  


I almost bump into Nate on my way out of the bathroom, reaching out to try and steady him as he stumbles back a step. "Sorry! I was just coming to check on you…I thought you might've slipped and broken a hip," he teases, carefully, voice soft. I feel an honest-to-god smile on my face and Nate's face lights up like a damn Christmas tree.

"Mind if I sit with you f'r a li'l bit?"

"Of course not."

As soon as I sit down, I remember that I'm exhausted, and end up leaning against Nate, resting my cheek on his hair as he flips through TV channels. After a few minutes, he's suggesting I lay down and combing his fingers through my still-damp hair as my head rests in his lap.

I don't remember dozing off, but I'm waking up to something soft and warm laid over me from my shoulders to my toes, and gentle fingers in my hair. It takes me a minute to find my voice, and when I do, Nate flinches a little. "Baby?"

"Mm?"

"Thank y'." It comes out as a yawn, but I think he heard me. "Love you."

"I love you, too, Matty."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, then I'm assuming you read the chapter. If _any of this_ resonated with you, if you've felt this way, or similarly, and you haven't already done so, Please Seek Help. Speak to someone. Hell, speak to me if you want; I'm in no way a mental health professional, but I'll do what I can to help. 
> 
> Take care. Stay safe.


End file.
